Of Candlelit Rooms and Ambitions Too Great
by volta arovet
Summary: The rule of Queen Ovelia, from its greatest heights to its ending tragedy.


**Of Candlelit Rooms and Ambitions too Great**

_by volta arovet_

* * *

The Holy Knight knelt before the queen and announced that young Prince Orinas was dead. That was the moment Ovelia remembers most clearly in her life—not being kidnapped, not learning her humble past, not even her own coronation. It was just that moment, an instant in time, the curved line of his humble back, the unspeakable boldness of his upturned face, the dark eyes which met hers and revealed nothing, absolutely nothing, and the simple way Delita, her Delita (and when had he become 'her' Delita?) declared to the court that the only person who could possibly take the throne from her was dead.

"I am going to the funeral," she told him firmly that evening when it was just the two of them—what need had a queen for a bodyguard when the legendary Holy Knight Delita was present?

He pursed his lips in a manner she knew meant he disagreed, but he simply nodded and said, "If you wish."

"He was just a child," she insisted.

"Even children sometimes die," Delita answered, infuriatingly calm.

"He was the same as me," she said, "only younger. He didn't have time to choose his path. All he had was people choosing it for him. He...for all you know he might have made a great king." She stomped her foot and told herself not to cry.

"With Larg and Ruvelia always whispering in his ear?" Delita asked sardonically, then wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered, "You _are _a great queen."

Ovelia sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "Did you have him killed?"

His hands warmed the small of her back, and the sharp, earthy scent of his skin drowned out her soft perfume. "Would you truly wish to know if I did? Do you think I am capable of killing a four-year-old child?"

"If he were a threat to me," she answered, and he chuckled sadly into her hair.

"You might be right. Would you believe me if I told you that poor Prince Orinas' death was nothing but an unhappy accident which I had nothing to do with, or would you simply call me a liar?"

"I'd like to believe you wouldn't lie to me," she said, her eyes down turned, her lashes a dark curve against her cheek.

"I would never lie to you," he said, and kissed the corner of her mouth. "Good night, Ovelia."

* * *

Delita kept his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword when Queen Ovelia paid her respects to the former queen, temporarily freed from her cell. Nothing came from the meeting except a quiet murmur of condolences exchanged with a chilling look which clearly implied that Ovelia was not worthy of her position.

The funeral was underattended—expected for someone as politically unsafe as the former queen's son. The High Priest had declined to come, and in his place was a rather young member of the church. Ruvelia stood straight and unforgiving as the unbearably small coffin was lowered into the ground. The fresh white marker stood in contrast to the two faded gray stones flanking it, but it promised to fade in time until all three were a matched set for the three brothers buried underneath.

The guests were an odd mix of nobles and church members, most there for an audience with the queen rather than a chance to show their respects to the departed prince. "Bishop Drumlond," Delita quietly informed Ovelia, always a step behind and to the right. Said bishop had been subtly angling for a moment with the queen all throughout the funeral. "He doubled the tithe on his parishioners to help fund the Hokuten's plans, and now finds himself out of favor with both. He's hoping to win your favor so he might keep his current rank within the church. Do not speak to him any longer than courtesy demands."

The knight pointed to another in opulent robes. "Former Cardinal Hansa. He supposedly sold weapons to both sides of the war, though it is difficult to find any proof of his doings. He's corrupt to the bone, as well as intelligent. I would advise against trusting him."

"Are there any members of the church you believe I _can_ trust?" Ovelia said with a slight smile, looking at Delita out of the corner of her eye.

The young man who had officiated the funeral service came to greet the queen, her entourage collectively frowning at his forwardness. "Bishop Pater Mattheo," Delita said, his introduction void of the usual exposition that had previously colored his speech.

"Cardinal, actually," Mattheo corrected, touching his crooked hat and giving a surprisingly winsome smile. "There have been many places in the church left vacant due to the...unpleasantness of the past few years. Count Durai has been rather thorough in his investigations, I'm afraid, and I am one of the unfortunates prematurely promoted to fill those gaps."

"I pleasure to meet you, Cardinal," Ovelia said diplomatically. "I trust you will perform your new duties admirably."

"I hope so, too," Mattheo said, and Ovelia was startled into a laugh. "I wonder if I haven't already made a mess of it. No other cardinal was willing to perform the burial service for fear of unwittingly allying themselves with the former queen, and therefore against you. I hope I have not placed myself in your bad graces, your majesty," he said with a small bowing of the head that was almost too sincere.

"Quite the contrary," the Queen said, and Delita's hand twitched over his sword. "You show an excellent devotion to your calling."

"I am relieved," Mattheo said, and cast his eyes in the direction of the fresh grave. "Poor child. But for the want of a Delita he lies in the ground." He broke out of his apparent reverie. "Forgive me, your highness. I should not say such things." He bowed deeply, a mess of thin blond hair escaping his hat and falling into his eyes. "If you will excuse me, I have further duties I must attend to."

"I hope we have an occasion to meet again in the future," Ovelia said graciously, and Cardinal Mattheo departed.

"He's more ambitious than he appears to be," Delita cautioned, "and more intelligent, but as far as I know he has managed to stay clear of the major scandals of the church."

Ovelia raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that a member of the church actually meets your approval?"

"You might be able to trust him," Delita grudgingly admitted. "At least, as far as you can throw him."

It was an arm's length farther than most, which was as good a start as any.

* * *

The harvest that year was particularly good, and Queen Ovelia was praised for it in the same breath that she was blamed for the continued taxing of the harvest, as if she had done anything to create either institution.

Holy Knight Delita returned from his journey throughout the territory of Zelamonia with reports of the reconstruction efforts, only to find his Queen (and when had she become 'his' Queen?) sitting at a solitary desk in her chambers, elbows-deep in a pile of reports about an entirely different matter.

He dismissed her guards and handmaidens with a curt order and a nod of his head.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Ovelia said, the corners of her mouth turned down in a peevish little moue. "There has been enough gossip about you and I already. You needn't encourage any more."

Delita sat on her desk. His feet swung a little, not quite reaching the floor, and for a moment he looked like the young man he truly was instead of the elder knight he had to be. "I'm sorry. I thought the grand romance between the Queen and her trusted knight was part of the legend." He plucked one of her hands off of the desk and brushed a kiss against its back. "One of the true parts," he clarified.

"It's not that," she said, reclaiming her hand. "It's..." She huffed and swatted at the papers covering her desk. "It's this."

Delita lifted one paper and scanned it. "A treatise on the proposed taxation of grains traveling across borders?" he read.

"Ordalia hasn't done as well as we have this harvest. Many farmers are selling the grain across the border for a large profit. This is a proposal to tax all grains crossing the border. On one hand, it would increase our funds and encourage our citizens to store grain in case the next harvest isn't as successful. On the other hand, it would also serve to decrease the influx of funds from Ordalia, which we also need," Ovelia explained, pointing to the associated papers or books as needed. Neat lines of Ovelia's handwriting annotated the margins of many of the papers.

"That is difficult," Delita sympathized. "I'll see if I can speak with your advisors tomorrow and—"

"Don't." Ovelia's usually rosy lips were set in a firm line. "I've already done lots of research, and I think I've figured out which plan is the best."

"Oh." Delita's eyes were wide. "Well. Good."

"And now you've ruined everything!" she said, swatting his leg. "Now that you're back, they're going to think these are _your_ ideas!"

"Sorry?"

"Everyone thinks I'm a puppet," Ovelia said, and the last of Delita's good humor faded. "Your puppet. They say if you're not making the decisions directly, you're telling me what to say." She sighed and looked away. "It's true."

"Ovelia..." He covered her hand with his, and this time she didn't pull away.

"They raised me for this," she said quietly. "I don't know how to be anything else. I've tried teaching myself, but it's so hard."

"Then we'll just have to get someone else to teach you, now won't we?"

* * *

Olan Durai arrived at Zeltennia Castle the following week. Ovelia had no idea what Delita had said to convince him to join her court, but Olan arrived with little fanfare, a great collection of books, a wife, and an infant son.

Ovelia found any free moment she had filled with lectures on history, politics, economics—everything the priests hadn't thought she should know. When Olan himself was busy, she found some new, thick book (whose name invariably was a paragraph in itself) pressed into her hands. The results were that at the end of eight weeks, Ovelia found herself able to talk policies on a near equal footing with members of Parliament—or at least, she knew the appropriate questions to ask in such a discussion.

On the day Delita overheard two elder statesmen discussing what an absolute terror the young queen had become, he rushed into her chambers, kissed her quite soundly (handmaidens and bodyguards be damned), and asked her to marry him.

She said no.

* * *

"If your goal was to dispel the rumors about us, I think you failed," said Delita to Ovelia that night in the privacy of her quarters. He had the look of a mildly irritated cat, which Ovelia found rather amusing.

"On the contrary," Ovelia said primly, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture perfect in her chair. "I believe that in the minds of my people, this has finally secured my independence from your overwhelming influence."

"So you are done with me, then?" Delita's voice was very quiet, and therefore very dangerous.

"I prefer to think that I am now free to answer you without it becoming a political statement." She was small and neat and perfect and had never been more beautiful than she was at that moment. "If you would be so kind as to ask me again?"

He did.

This time, she said yes.

Later that night, while lying in his arms, she said, "I believe you would rather marry a queen than the woman you love."

He said, "How fortunate for me that they are one and the same," and kissed her hair.

* * *

The wedding was the usual ornate, royal affair, different from its predecessors only by the creation of a commoner king, the ceremony headed by a young cardinal rather than the high priest, and how extraordinarily happy the young couple was.

* * *

"The key is education," Olan Durai said, as Ovelia listened intently and Delita nodded in agreement. "The nobles have many advantages over the commoners—money, connections, status recognition—but the underlying method of keeping the classes separate is a denial of basic education and access to information. Without that, few people are able to take advantage of any opportunities that may arise."

Ovelia looked to Delita, who murmured, "I was sponsored by a noble."

"Traditionally, it has been only the rich or those in the priesthood who have had the time to advance the body knowledge. Not only literacy, but also the principles of mathematics and science were the property of the ruling class. In fact, it has been suggested that many of the miracles of St. Ajora were not supposed to be taken literally as written—they were metaphors that the uneducated masses would take at face value, but the educated would understand as a code for the methods St. Ajora gained power by more conventional means." Olan hastened to amend, "This is only a theory, mind you, and to repeat it as absolute truth might mark one as a heretic."

"I think we all understand that St. Ajora was not as he seemed," Delita said sharply. "You needn't mince about the fact."

"I am only attempting to emphasize how education has been used to enforce class distinctions," Olan responded, equally sharp.

"It's not simply education," Ovelia said, injecting every bit of queenliness into her voice in an attempt to keep the men on topic. "At the monastery, I was taught languages, literature, and theology, but was deliberately left ignorant of the things truly needed to be a leader. Without a proper breadth of knowledge, education becomes merely a...distraction."

"So you are suggesting not merely subsidizing poorer students at nobles' schools, but instituting a standard core curriculum as well?" Delita asked. "That would improve matters for the nobles as well as a small number of poor children, but I don't know if that would do anything but create a small subclass of educated novelties." He looked to Olan for confirmation, who was busy scribbling on the back of an envelope.

The scholar shook his head. "The current number of schools couldn't handle the critical mass needed to start a change in class culture."

"So we create new schools and reform the existing ones," Ovelia said, the thrill of creation shining in her eyes. "And we fund them through state taxes, not directly by the parents."

"Now all that's left is to persuade people that education is, in fact, important," Delita prompted, as Olan attempted to get over the shock of what the queen had just suggested.

"That's simple," she said, smiling sweetly. "We make it mandatory."

"Do you realize how complicated, revolutionary, and _expensive_ what you're suggesting will be?" Olan sputtered, but from the way the King and Queen were smiling at each other, it was clear that the king's particular brand of madness was contagious.

"This is a reign of commoners, Olan," Delita said, keeping his eyes on his wife. "I believe an elevation of the commonfolk would be a suitable legacy for such a queen."

* * *

Cardinal Pater Mattheo, pale eyes sad and hat slightly askew, was the one to deliver the news to the king and queen. "The investigation of the incident at Orbonne Monastery has been concluded. We have evidence that Ramza and Alma Beoulve, Count Cidolfus Orlandu, six of his allies, and eighteen clergymen including Temple Knight Vormav Tingel, all perished in the explosion."

Ovelia pressed a hand to her mouth. Delita's dark eyes revealed nothing.

"I'm sorry," Mattheo continued. "Ramza Beoulve may have been a heretic, but I know he was also your friend."

"Thank you," King Delita said firmly, cutting off any further condolences. "We will discuss this report in detail tonight." It was said in a tone that clearly meant a dismissal, and Mattheo gracefully bowed and extricated himself from the court.

"We will not be going to the funeral," Delita told Ovelia in private, and she gave no protest. The funerals of fallen princes were one matter, but those of declared heretics and traitors could not be attended. She felt a little comforted when she heard Delita instructing Olan about the funeral and where to find a certain woman in hiding.

That night, Ovelia found her husband sitting under a tree in the garden, a blade of grass pressed to his lips. The reedy notes, thin and pure as a violin, floated mournfully through the air. She knelt beside him, heedless of the dust coating her elaborate robes, and plucked another blade of grass. She was out of practice, and the only sound she could make was that of her uneven breath.

* * *

The arrival of Mustadio Bunanza brought an unexpected levity to the otherwise sedate castle court. He had traded the grease-stained overalls for more appropriate robes and a somewhat amusing feathered hat, but that thrill for life that was something between a dashing gunslinger and a mad scientist remained the same.

He bowed awkwardly, several rolls of blueprints stuck under his left arm and a toddler hanging off his right hip. "Long time no see, your majesty."

"It's good to see you," Ovelia said, and she was surprised to realize it was true. She gestured to a chair in her informal chamber; Mustadio gratefully sat down, blueprints tumbling to the ground and son scrambling to his lap.

"This is Balthario," the engineer said, bouncing his son into an impromptu bow. The boy laughed openly and loudly. "He is obviously very pleased to meet you," Mustadio translated.

"I didn't know you were married!" Ovelia said, cooing over the boy.

"I'm not," Mustadio said simply, toying with one of his son's hands. "His mother was Alicia. I think you met her; she was one of the knights with us. She fought through most of her pregnancy," he said with a fond smile. "We'd made plans to marry when the war was over, but..." he trailed off for a moment. "I was left defending the gates of Orbonne Monastery, but she was right at the heart of it, with Ramza, when it..." He shrugged. "So now it's just Balthario and me."

"I'm so sorry," Ovelia said, tears gathering in her eyes.

"Don't cry!" Mustadio protested wildly. "We're happy, really. Father is still very healthy, the digs are going well, Goug's finally free of the Bart Company, and hey, the King's calling me for advice, so I must be doing something right." His brow furrowed. "It's odd, though. We've been uncovering all sorts of interesting ancient weaponry and ships, but all he wanted me to bring were these plans for an advanced printing press."

"Printing press?" This was the first Ovelia had heard of this.

"Yeah," said Mustadio equally confused. "It's a good design, though. The type's quick to change and it should print really fast. It's got this really interesting rolling mechanism, where...anyway, with a little tweaking this could be a really great machine. Don't know what the big deal is, though." He shrugged again. Ovelia wondered what Delita was planning.

* * *

"Education is only the first step," Delita later explained. "Once the schools are running, people will need current knowledge to understand and influence the events surrounding their lives. Most people still get their information from rumors in bars. We can change that."

The four others in the room—Queen Ovelia, Cardinal Mattheo, Mustadio, and Olan, listened with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and amusement.

"The nobles have a monopoly on the information markets," Delita continued. "We need to create a new way to distribute the information to everyone. With this new printing press, books and scrolls can be printed quickly and in great quantities." He looked to Mustadio for confirmation.

"Sure, if we mass-produce the thing it'd be possible to print all this stuff, but how'd you distribute it?" the engineer asked warily.

"I can tell you that," the cardinal cut in. "The priests already have an efficient messenger system in place. I assume you'd like me to set up something similar?" He raised an eyebrow at Delita, who nodded.

"Good deduction," the king said evenly.

"Lucky guess," Mattheo corrected, pressing his fingertips together.

"And who would control what is printed," Olan asked, sharp voice breaking the mood of the room.

"We would, at first," Delita replied smoothly. "But I see no reason why, in time, the presses couldn't be independently run."

"You're nothing if not ambitious," Mattheo said, apparently impressed. The feeling that anything could be accomplished was filling the room. "The bricks are hardly laid on your new schools and you're already planning to fill them with books. So tell me, your majesty: what will be the subject of our first printing?"

Delita's hand sought Ovelia's. "The story of Queen Ovelia and the commoner Delita, of course."

* * *

"It's late," Ovelia said, wrapping her arms around her husband's tense shoulders. "You should come to bed."

"I've been working on things," Delita said, casually draping an arm over his papers.

"We've all been working hard," Ovelia returned. "Even the boys have exhausted themselves." Mustadio's and Olan's sons were fast becoming friends.

Delita hmphed an answer.

"Have you given thought to an heir?" she said coyly, her hand traveling to his chest.

"Yes," he said, catching her hand before it could move any further. "I'm working on that, too."

"What?"

"Nothing. I will be late tonight. You should go to bed without me." Ovelia turned and rushed out of the room, tears staining the corner of her eyes.

* * *

Mustadio was on his back under the printing press, looking much more natural in his coveralls and half pound of grease. A few feet away, Balthario was showing Arlund—Olan's son—which tools were for chewing and which ones were for hitting.

The edges of Ovelia's robes brushed over the hard rock floor. "Mustadio?"

"Just fixing a couple bugs in the prototype, your majesty," Mustadio said from under the machine. "Once I get this worked out, I can go back to Goug and with any luck never bother you again."

"Mustadio? Are you all right?" Ovelia moved closer to the engineer's feet, her robe wiping the grease from the floor. "Does this have anything to do with how Olan was yelling at Delita this morning?" she tried.

Mustadio snorted. "Yeah, you could say that. His Majesty decided to do a little editing on the manuscript. It's on page 23, near the bottom." His right foot pointed toward a nearby pile of papers.

It was awful. It was little more than a footnote, but... "How could he?" Ovelia gasped, pages fluttering like broken birds about her feet.

"He said something about how Ramza always said being notorious was better than dying in obscurity," Mustadio spat. "He said, he said Ramza would have thought it was _funny_. He said--_Damn_!" He rolled out from under the press. His hand was bleeding. "No offense, your highness, but if this is the kind of thing the king does to his friends, then me and Bal are probably better off back at the dig site in Goug."

"I don't know what to do," Ovelia said, gently wrapping his hand in her handkerchief. "He doesn't talk to me anymore. He just keeps getting more angry, more driven. I know he's been having secret meeting with Olan, and he..." Her voice broke.

"Hey now, keep that up and you're gonna want this back," Mustadio said, motioning with his handkerchiefed hand.

"I'm sorry."

"I am, too," Mustadio said, and was surprised to realize he meant it. "It was fun playing politics with you guys, but I've got to get away before I get sucked any farther into this. For Bal, if not for myself." He thought for a moment. "You can come with me, if you want. The site's got thousands of little nooks where you can hide and no one will ever find you."

She laughed in spite of herself. "No, thank you. I think I have to stay here."

"Damn. Always wanted to kidnap royalty," Mustadio said with a smile. "Remember, if things get to be too much here, my offer stands."

"I will miss you," she said, throwing her arms around him.

"I will miss you, too," he said, carelessly returning the embrace.

Mustadio and his son left the following day. The grease stains never completely came out of Ovelia's robes, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

* * *

"What you are suggesting is ridiculous!" Olan shouted as Ovelia entered the candlelit room. Mattheo looked nervously between the shouting scholar and the seething king.

"Delita?" Ovelia gasped, surprised by the violence in her husband's eyes.

"That's only because it's never been tried before!" Delita yelled back. He nodded at Ovelia. "Get her out of here."

Ovelia protested as Mattheo grabbed her elbow. "Pater! Let go of me!"

"Come on, best not to get in the way of Mom and Dad when they're fighting," the little cardinal said as he firmly escorted Ovelia out of the room. "Promise not to hit me and I'll fill you in."

"Well?" Ovelia asked when they were behind locked doors again.

"How can I put this?" Mattheo dithered. "King Delita wishes to replace Parliament with officials selected by the citizens of each section of the country—ah, that includes eliminating most of the castle's church officials, too. Self sadly included. He says the people should be given a say in governing themselves."

"That's..." The only word Ovelia could come up with was "big," but that barely encompassed the sheer enormity of the idea.

"Yes," Mattheo agreed, as if sensing her thoughts. "Olan actually thinks it's a good idea, if it weren't so likely to get us killed in our sleep. He just thinks the king is moving too fast. The schools, the news scrolls, official selected by the people...it's all a bit too much, too soon. Shove the people into something they're not ready for and there might be another revolution, huh? Sure, it's all been part of his plan, but after all these years of war the people need a little security now, you know?"

Ovelia's blood ran cold. "His...plan? _His_ plan? We all made those decisions together!"

"Did we? I must have been mistaken." His face was open and completely lacking in guile; an incongruous look on someone who had previously proved to be so intelligent. "It makes a strange sort of sense, though. Smarten the people up, get them angry about what's been going on, give them a taste of power over the government...you do see what the next step would be?"

"No," Ovelia said, her braid tossing wildly in denial.

"Don't let me worry you," Mattheo said in a friendly manner. "There is always a good chance that I am wrong. Good night, your majesty." He bowed deeply, the funny patch of blond hair falling in his eyes.

He paused at the door, and his silly, crooked hat and harmless mannerisms suddenly weren't so comforting anymore. "I wonder, though. If the people _were _to choose a single leader, whom do you think they would choose?" He shrugged lightly and left, leaving Ovelia alone with her thoughts.

* * *

Mattheo found Ovelia in the gardens of Zeltenia Castle. "You are not an easy person to find," he remarked lightly. "In case you missed the screaming argument this morning, Olan has resigned his position. It appears that just you and I are left. Oh, and his majesty, of course."

"I try to stay out of those things," Ovelia said, her voice flat.

"That's generally a good idea with those two," Mattheo agreed. "I'm afraid I have to leave on important church business, but I wanted to give you this before I left." He handed her a roughly bound book. "It's a copy of the report Olan was trying to print. The one that caused the argument. I'm afraid that his majesty found it a bit too, ah, truthful."

"Thank you," Ovelia said, opening the pages. A bejeweled dagger slipped out from between the pages. "It's beautiful."

Mattheo gave her a winsome smile. "Happy Birthday, your highness."

He left as Ovelia began to read the first copy of the Durai Report.


End file.
